


SOS

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21694384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale never learns his lesson.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 90





	SOS

Crowley was putting a brave face on it, but Aziraphale could feel the waves of pain. And if he couldn’t, his empathetic imagination felt them, clear enough.

It had been, what was it Crowley liked to say? A complete-and-utter-cock-up. Not so much pear shaped, as pear-crumble rubbed into eyes. And the worst part of all was that it was well and truly the angel’s fault.

He’d gone in all faith, no pun intended. He’d thought nothing of the meeting, not when it was to discuss religious texts. The cathedral had a little gift and coffee shop, and that was very nice indeed. It was a lovely old building, beloved of the local bat population, and had wonderful bells. 

Aziraphale hadn’t told Crowley where he was going, simply that he was. And when it turned out to be less than savoury individuals… hired, doubtless, by his ‘old’ side… he’d realised what an utter fool he had been. 

He’d called out, desperately, and was unsurprised when a flutter of black wings was followed by low and urgent cursing. Holy ground and all. But he knew - oh he knew - that Crowley would come for him. Aziraphale had clutched his book satchel to his chest, using it as a shield to deter the assailants, unwilling to resort to violence, even now.

It was - it just - 

It was easier to defend others than himself. Had it been Crowley, he knew he’d not hesitate.

But Crowley came in swinging, grabbing offering plates, dining plates, plastic chairs - anything - and hurtling them at the attackers. Aziraphale had hesitated a little longer, until one of them grabbed a crucifix and assaulted his demon.

The mixed blasphemy of using the icon, combined with the sibilant call of pain, and he’d lost whatever restraint held him back. The Humans in the building were treated to white wings and bright light, and several very rude people were left tied up like offerings at the foot of the altar.

And he and Crowley went quickly home.

His feet were burned badly, and no amount of salve or prayer would heal them faster. Anything he might try could potentially cause more harm, so he’d kept his miracles to himself and bound them in what passed for Human burn treatment. 

Crowley had resisted, but Aziraphale couldn’t leave him hurting, not on his behalf.

The other wounds were less widespread. Deep gouges, but a single, clean line. Anaesthetic creams and padding, and white, white bandages. They looked stark on his frame, and did nothing for the aesthetic choice of black.

Crowley reclined on the sofa, legs draped over the arm, pretending it wasn’t to keep his feet off the floor. He gestured with the glass of whiskey, and each arch of his throat to drink, swan-like, pulled the loose shirt up higher. A flash of shroud-white, reminding the angel that they were not, in fact, invulnerable.

It wasn’t fair.

Crowley had risked everything to save him - and the world - over and over.

Surely now, She should have forgiven him?

_Ah_ said a voice, somewhere deep inside. Somewhere he wasn’t sure if it was his own, or not.

_You can only be forgiven when you accept the offer._

Crowley had not. Would not.

Crowley’s Heaven was this, he realised, as those eyes ached when they looked up at his worried expression.

“M’sorry you didn’t get the books, angel.”

“I have everything I need right here,” he murmured, instead.

“Leave it off.”

“No,” he said, and smiled a smile that hurt as badly as Sacred Ground. “Would you like a top up, my dear?”

“...wouldn’t say no.”

Crowley didn’t think he deserved forgiveness, but he’d asked the world for something else, instead. And Aziraphale couldn’t help but be glad it was him.


End file.
